


solstice

by abreathofthewild



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Touching, Kisses, Link is a great chef, Snow, Warm embraces, Winter, Zelda has a knack for research and is sometimes a smartass, i don't know how to tag, zelink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abreathofthewild/pseuds/abreathofthewild
Summary: Winter brought a chill. It was cold; uncomfortably so; colder than she ever remembered it being, anyway. And yet at the same time, whenever she was with him—it was always inexplicably warm.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just a fluffy drabble for christmas and winter  
> i just can't get over these two :')

Winter brought a chill.

It was cold; uncomfortably so; colder than she ever remembered it being, anyway.

“Were not just searching for the leviathan bones,” she breathed shakily, a hazy diaphanous cloud appearing in front of her face. “The period of the winter solstice and its accompanying fluctuations in temperatures provide the optimal conditions for field studies.”

He pulled on the reigns, and his horse and hers came to a halt. He dismounted, offering a hand for her to follow.

She took it, squeezing his fingers as thanks, lingering in his hold for a while until he lingered away from her reach. She promptly dusted off her black corduroy pants and straightened her brown leather gloves further down her wrists. Noticing his silence, she clears her throat, continuing from where she left off, “or... so I’ve heard.”

He raises an eyebrow at her whilst he avoided direct eye contact, working at the horse’s saddle tacks and buckles.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she hisses at him, squaring her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips. “I’ve read many credible sources that state—"

“Those are over a hundred years old,” he interjects, looking at her through the corner of his eye. The tack slacked and a thick sheepskin blanket dropped into his arms.

He turns to her, watching as her eyebrows furrow, twitch like they do just before she is about to protest—but then they finally relaxed. “Maybe so. It was worth looking into if we were going to make the journey to Hebra eventually.”

He shrugged. “I think I’d rather celebrate the Solstice with food and drink back where it’s somewhat _warm_.”

She shook her head. “ _Sir Knight_ , you can’t exactly _complain_ when you are _always_ saying ‘I can’t leave you alone’, or ‘it’s my duty to protect you’, or so on and so forth,” she replied, dramatically lowering herself on one knee and mimicking his hoarse voice and actions. She probably looks like a fool, one palm on her chest, the other outreached to him in a sort of serenade with a pained expression on her face; but it all the more, indisputably, acts to reinforce her point.

He looks down at her and scowls, frowns, and then grins smugly before turning and walking off in the other direction.

She smiles with a chuckle and rolls back up onto her heels following his lead, rocking forward on the balls of her feet impatiently when he comes to a halt in front of their destination. It was a quaint log cabin, blanketed with a thick sheet of snow on the roof, icicles hanging from the rafters and a build up of snow blocking the door.

He shuffles the snow out of the way with his boots until the door finally gave way to leverage and he was able to push it open. He then steps out of said boots, and places them neatly to the side of the door within the interior. 

“Does somebody live here?” She asks, closing the door behind her and mimicking his actions.

“A good friend of mine.”

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She could see glints of metal; a few oddly shaped shields hanging from the ceiling architraves like pieces of art, forgotten with the cobwebs, dust and soot from the fireplace.

“Where is such a friend of yours _now_ , then?” She unclasps her heavy white petticoat adorned with gold leaf embroidery, folds it in half and drapes it over her forearms. 

He doesn't reply immediately, but instead goes to strike a piece of flint against a stack of wooden logs resting in the fireplace with a pocket knife; once, twice, three times—and finally, there is light, warmth, fire.

He sheathes the pocket knife into his belt and dusts off his hands. “Probably surfing on some sand dunes.”

That _would_ explain the incessant amount of shields.

“I suppose the period of the winter solstice is too much for some, especially in Hebra," she breathes. He looks over his shoulder and gives her this _look_ , as if she's mocking him—but she looks at him with no such expression that would indicate such. 

She helps him unpack their bags. Pots and pans (or, a pot and pan, but it seems like much more than that when it's in the bag), some dried herbs and jerky and the odd bunch of mushrooms, lightweight wooden bowls and cups and a filled waterskin for them each. He unties the sheepskin blanket from beneath the pack, airing it out, lowering it to the floorboards. 

“No, it’s just that nobody comes up here during the solstice,” he replies, better later than ever. He begins peeling off the layers of his snow gear made by the Rito adorned with their own feathers and manufactured fleece.

Once the tunic was over his head and they met each other’s gaze, she sneers. “Do you?” She eyes him curiously, lowering herself and crossing her legs on the blanket.

He almost _rolls_ his eyes—though, it wasn’t that obvious, because his hair was a putrid mess which, in fact, obstructed his eyes. “You already know the answer to that.” He led himself outside, without a word, and returned moments later swaddling a heavy saddlebag against his chest; which he _dropped_ with a heavy _thud_ in front of her.

He took a seat next to her and next to the bag, crossing his legs, like he always does. “I’ll get dinner ready,” he murmured, rummaging through the contents. 

“I can help,” she piqued, offering a hand to take whatever it was that he was fumbling for in the bag.

He shrugged her off, shoving her hand away. “You don’t know how to skin.” His hand revealed a fresh rabbit carcass which they—or rather he, being as good as he is with a bow and arrow—had caught on their way up the summit. Within seconds, with the same feeble pocket knife that he had used for the flint, he had cut and removed the carcass’ thin fur hide, removed the limbs and the more "inedible", gamier pieces along with its gutted innards, salvaging only the "edible" pieces that would suit her delectable palate.

She raises her nose and grimaces, and noticing her poorly concealed dejection he grins, as if he knew exactly how she would react.

He tossed the pieces to the side before he—with the same knife—began finely dicing mushrooms, mincing garlic, trimming shallots and cleaning foraged roots. He then tossed them altogether into the pot to sauté. He added a rather deformed rock-a hard frozen _lump_ of goat butter of which they had brought from the stable innkeeper hours prior, watching it simultaneously transform; melting into a pool of pure golden liquid.

He added the meat, and after a while, he was dishing the stew into two bowls with a wooden ladle. He handed her one, and before she could offer a polite "thank you" or even a smile out of common courtesy, he was already chowing down his own bowl’s contents like a starved animal.

She picked up the spoon and had a few mouthfuls herself. It had a strong, wild taste and was overall more _gamey_ than she had preconceived that it would be; but it was to be expected with the choice of meat, the lack of time to clean and dry it properly or dress it—and it was simply what they could gather on a freezing mountain desolate of abundant life and foliage. Nevertheless, it was delicious. Delicious in such a way that every savoury bite on her tastebuds travelled to the tips of her fingers and toes, circling back, and pooling in her core. She breathed in delight, a palm cupping her cheek as she smiled. “It’s delicious.”  
He looked up at her momentarily, his bowl now lowered from his face—and not to her surprise,there were smudges of meat and sauce covering his mouth and lips.

She almost choked on her food laughing, so she coughed, cleared her throat, and laughed some more—wiping her eyes as tears formed from hysterics. “Sorry,” she managed. She leant forward and, out of her pants’ pockets, she fetched a handkerchief to dab and wipe at the corners of his mouth. She was a bit rough here, a bit gentle there, and before long she folded the handkerchief in half, smiled at her work and tugged at his cheek with her thumb and index finger.

Her smile then turned lopsided, and her hand fell from his face. “Sorry, you know—about earlier.”

He stilled, raising an eyebrow at her, his mouth still presuming its chewing ministrations.

Her eyes slip shut, and she sighs. “I know how much you would rather be at the castle right now, where there’d probably be a whole banquet for the Solstice—I’m sure it’d be more fulfilling for your gluttonous palate.” She smiles insincerely, fiddling with her thumbs. “So—I’m sorry, that you had to come all this way with me.”

After a while, he lowers his bowl and uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. He clears his throat, coughs and looks into her emerald eyes enlightened by the warmth of the fire and the glistening of barely formed tears. “I don’t mind.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying or not, so she squinted at him—eyelids half-closed as slits—suspicious, cautious and _adorable._

He waves a dismissive hand in front of him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Really.”

“That’s nice to hear. Thank you.” Her shoulders relaxed, and she shuffled closer toward him, facing the fireplace. “For coming, I mean. You’re great company.”

He didn’t move further away, but he turned and looked down into her eyes, and the look on his face showed that he was confused—almost dumbfounded, really. 

She realises their proximity to one another's faces and quickly relocates her gaze into the fire; the flames licking low at the firewood, the same way they are in her core. “What I mean is—I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.

He places his bowl to the side and leans in closer to her, resting his cheek on the surface of her soft golden locks. His hand travels around to her side, resting at her waist, making sure she stays _right there, just like that._

And for him, it was warm, and it was comfortable and it was close to what he'd call perfect. That is, until he notices the slight spasm, the slight shiver emanating from her shoulders, the slight clatter of her teeth together—and he quickly pulls away and turns her to face him. “Are you cold?” He asks, finding the need to grip her shoulders. He was almost shaking himself. His face was full of concern—his eyes wide, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth half-agape with laboured breath and she almost felt the compelling need to cry (in joy) simply over the amount of worry he showed her for something so… menial.

She worried the flesh of her bottom lip between her teeth and looked down at the space between them. “Yes, I am, actually—a little bit.”

He leaves her so suddenly, so _quickly_ that she instinctively leans forward to seek out his presence. It wasn’t necessary, though, as he returned to her just as quickly as he had left, this time with a blanket draped around his shoulders meeting at each of his hands, and he envelops her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close against his chest.

She emerged from the blanket and was met with his face, a mere hair’s breadth away from her own.

Suddenly, she felt very warm, almost too warm—lingering on the border of hot. The flames licking at the firewood that once laid low grew in her core, spreading a flush pink across her cheeks, her nose and the very tips of her pointed ears. Whether it was from the fire, or from him—she prays to Hylia in hoping that he can't tell. He was breathing steady, it seemed, whereas she felt as if she couldn’t breathe at all.

He tilted his head slightly to the side and offered a warm, goofy smile.

It was simply the look on his face—the angle of which he tilted his head, the way his dimples revealed themselves with his wide smile—his hot breath against her skin, the smell of hyrulean herb in his messy honey hair, the way his hands met at her small and trace the skin underneath her winter chemise.

She couldn’t resist. She simply couldn't help herself. Her hands travelled from between them, up his chest, up his neck and finally resting on his cheeks, cupping them in her palms—and she tilted his head downward, slowly, just enough to meet hers, and then she found her lips pressed lightly against his.

She pulled backward, at first unaware—until she eyeballed the slither of moisture she had left behind on his plump lips. Finally, it occurred to her—her actions—she had _kissed_ him, her knight, her saviour, the Hero of Hyrule.

Sure, they'd kissed before. This wasn't a big deal. But then again, it was always on the knuckles as a formal gesture, or in her hair whilst they slept in each others arms, or on her forehead to bid away the recurrent nightmares or on the cheek to welcome each other or to say goodbye. Little pecks, they were; wherever and whenever they could manage. 

Her eyes widened, and her heart rate skyrocketed. Suddenly, she was fighting to escape his grasp, trying to crawl backwards, her limbs splaying in front of her in a jumbled mess—but it was all futile, he had tightened his hold around her and pulled her flush against his chest, refusing to let her go.

She yelped. Why did she just—? She panicked. Yeah. Kissing him on the lips _is_ a bit different, she supposed. No, maybe a _lot_ different—if that even grammatically makes sense. She _panicked_. With a gasp, she manages, “Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

He pulls her head into his chest, _closer,_ and he coos her like a child, stroking her short golden locks with one hand, the other looping under and around her shoulder, rocking them back and forth on the spot. “Breathe,” she heard him whisper into her ear.

She did. _Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale—the taste of his lips on hers—exhale._

She feels him kiss her hair, like he always does. And it's like a revelation when she realises. Kissing was nothing strange or _foreign_. Their relationship—they were always so passionate, so deeply intertwined with one another’s beings, their needs and wants; holding each other so close that they could mould into one being—one singular heartbeat and breath, existing only to meet each other. 

Goddesses. She was so dramatic sometimes, and she curses herself for it. _Goddesses!_ This was fine. This was okay. This was _right._ She wanted this. _He_ wanted this. 

His hand in her hair found its place upon her nape, and the other around her shoulder travelled to her front—tilting her chin upward with deft fingers, his palm finding purchase on her plump and soft cheek. She leans into his hold, her eyes closed in a squint, her lips pursed together, a warmth on her skin.

She felt his lips graze against her forehead. It was so feather-light, almost like a caress. She almost wasn’t sure of whether it was his breath or his lips. It was so _gentle,_ so _kind,_ as if he couldn’t ever hurt her even if he tried. As if he was, _this_ time, allowing her to push him away, if she so felt the need.

She doesn't. She never does.

There are tears forming in her eyes, and he pulls back to wipe them away with his thumbs. “Why are you—”

She shakes her head and smiles messily. She could barely think, let alone _speak,_ so she made up the first excuse that came to her mind—“I’m cold.”

He smiles. Tilting his head downward, he leant forward and pressed their foreheads together. They stayed like that for a few moments, matching each other’s breathing, embracing each other’s warmth and realising—she loved him, and he loved her.

She’s not sure why it took so long to come to such a conclusion. She loved him, lo, 100 years ago, and still even now.

He tilted her head, lowering his lips to her temple. Then to her cheek. He pulled away briefly and looked into her eyes—as if to ask for permission. She breathed, nodded once, slipped her eyes closed and then, finally, their lips met again.

It wasn’t perfect—for a while, it was messy as they adjusted their angles to better fit each other so that they could _breathe,_ rather than smashing their noses against each other—until finally, it was. She had never kissed anyone before—so she couldn’t tell if it was just good, or if it was just _him_ who was good. She settled for both.

She had eavesdropped on women, stating that could recall the various tastes on their partner’s lips. That was true to the word—Link tasted like rabbit stew, herb and honey.

She smiled into the kiss at the thought.

If she could stay exactly like this with him, until time immemorial, until they are withered and old—arms wrapped around each other, bodies moulding together, becoming one—she doesn’t think she’d mind at all. But her lungs and throat are burning from the lack of oxygen, as were his—so they both pulled away, simultaneously, _reluctantly_.

He’s heaving, his cheeks flush pink and his ears twitching nervously.

She laughs, smiles and leans forward to capture his lips again—and the cycle repeats until their lips are bruised and worried from too _many_ kisses, if that’s even a thing, and Link is cursing himself for "hurting" her, and she's kissing him so he'll shut up.

In the wee hours, she wakes with peppered kisses on her skin and on her lips until she begins to reciprocate. In bed, under the sheepskin blanket, she marvels at the way they come together so easy, like the two missing puzzle pieces of a puzzle—her head leaning against his chest, his resting upon her hair; hands and fingers intertwined. A free hand and deft calloused fingers articulates minuscule ministrations against the small of her back—shapes, words and images that she can’t exactly deciphers but continues to guess in her head anyway—underneath the seam of her winter chemise. She grips at the fabric of his undershirt and pulls him closer, until there’s no more space between them and they're breathing and tasting the same air and themselves on each other's lips.

He pauses, and she looks up at his face when he does. Still looking straight ahead, he whispers, “missing out on the solstice is fine, so long as I’m with you.”

She smiles, burying her face underneath his chin into the crook of his neck. Her body and mind are screaming, squealing with delight, and somehow, she manages to speak. “Happy Solstice, Link.”

He replies after a while, “Happy Solstice, Zelda.”

She draws his hand between them up to her mouth, placing a kiss on his knuckles. She swallows, willing her voice not to shake. “Perhaps,” she announces, “on our way back, we should visit this cabin again. Maybe—if you’d permit it—I can try shield surfing.”

Link laughs, deep and hearty, and she feels it in the way his whole body shakes around her. 

She drifts off to sleep easily, carried by dreams of sapphire eyes and soft lips against her own.

She was glad for the glacial chill of a winter solstice night.


	2. Chapter 2

[gif](https://akatthemassie.tumblr.com/post/161477273647/guess-who-had-a-little-free-time-and-made-a) inspiration by [akatthemassie](https://akatthemassie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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